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Chap22Z-5 Copyright No. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

























*. 






















































AUG J&5 1898 








A BOY’S BATTLE 


THE YOUNG OF HEART SERIES 

ILLUSTRATED 


1. Hero*Chums . . . By Will Allen Dromgoole 

2. The Pineboro Quartette . By Willis Boyd Allen 

3. One Thousand Men for a Christmas Present, 

By Mary A. Sheldon 

4. Daddy Darwin’s Dovecote . By Juliana H. Ewing 

5. Rare Old Chums . . By Will Allen Dromgoole 

6. The Drums of the Fore and Aft, 

< By Rudyard Kipling 

7. The Strange Adventures of Billy Trill, 

By Harriet A. Cheever 

8. A Boy’s Battle . . By Will Allen Dromgoole 

9. The Man Without a Country, 

By Edward Everett Hale 

10. Editha’s Burglar . . By Frances Hodgson Burnett 

11. Jess By J. M. Barrie 

12. Little Rosebud ... By Beatrice Harraden 

Special Cover Design on each Volume 

Each, Thin 12mo. Cloth. 50 Cents 

DANA ESTES & CO., Publishers, Boston 






ssil 



U i 


I WAS SENT HERE TO TELL YOU UNCLE PETE IS COMING HOME.’ ” 




A BOY’S BATTLE 


BY 

WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE 

Author of “ The Heart of Old Hickory,” 
“ The Valley Path,” Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 



BOSTON 

ESTES AND LAURIAT 

1898 

C 





1 



Copyright , 1898 
By Estes and Lauriat 



Two 


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Colonial Press : 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, U. S. A. 




2 iv Go PV 


1 896 . 


TO MY BROTHER 


(JHtifoatTj ISanfejjeati jftflagtutjer ©rompole 

WHO DIED IN EARLY YOUTH 
BUT WHOM MY LIFE HAS MISSED 


MOST TENDERLY 












































































































































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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. An Accident ....... 11 

II. The Battle Begins 28 

III. In the Thickest of the Fight . . .46 

IV. Victory 63 

V. Peace 80 




ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“ ‘ I WAS SENT HERE TO TELL YOU UNCLE PETE IS 

coming home.’” ..... Frontispiece 

“A HEAVY dark object crashed through the 

VINES.” ......... 25 

“ Rode away to jail behind the deputy sheriff.” . 53 

“ He gave himself up to meditation.” . . . 73 

“It was dark when he reached the cabin door.” . 87 








A BOY’S BATTLE. 


CHAPTER I. 

AN ACCIDENT. 

T HE big farm-bell began to ring, calling the 
hands from the cotton field to their dinner. 
With the first note from the iron clapper Andrew 
Pearson dropped the book he had been reading and 
sprang to his feet. It was Saturday noon ; on Satur- 
days the hands were allowed to leave the field at 
noon, if they chose to do so, without jeopardising 
their chances of being employed again on Monday. 
If they preferred it, they were at liberty to work on 
as usual, the full day’s time. Being paid according 
to the amount of cotton they brought to the gin, the 
loss from the half holiday was their own. They 
always chose the holiday ; not one of them, those 
employed by the day, and those engaged by the year 
alike, but hung his basket under the shed at Saturday 
noon, there to remain until Monday morning. 

“ I must see uncle Jack before he gets off,” said 
Andrew, dashing, boy fashion, through the house, and 
11 


12 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


with every dog on the place at his heels. “ He might 
be going to town if he hasn’t forgot his promise. 
Most of the hands do go to town Saturdays.” 

44 And come back drunk, if they dodge the police 
and the lockup,” said Mr. Pearson, who had come out 
by another door just in time to hear his son’s words. 

Andrew’s eyes flashed. 

“ Uncle Jack doesn’t get drunk,” said he. “ He 
says he promised 4 Miss Jinny’ (that’s his wife) forty 
years ago he wouldn’t, and he never has. I call that 
a rare good promise-keeper. And I’m glad he is, 
because he promised to let me go ’possum-hunting 
with him the very first good day he was out of the 
cotton field. Last Saturday it rained ; I think we’ll 
go to-day.” 

44 You ain’t goin’ off on no ’possum-huntin’, An- 
drew,” cried a sharp voice from the kitchen, where 
Mrs. Pearson was frying turnover pies for dinner. 
44 I ain’t goin’ to have you cornin’ back here with your 
arms shot off, or maybe your head, even. You can 
just make up your mind to leave that gun be. You 
ain’t goin’ traipsin’ around the farm with a parcel o’ 
niggers this day ; that you ain’t.” 

“ Oh, mother, don’t say that ! ” said Andrew. 44 1 
shoot any time with father, and I’m not the least 
afraid of the gun.” 

44 Which ain’t any sign it won’t go off and land you 
where you’ll be mighty willin’ to own your mammy 
knows some things.” 

Mrs. Pearson was one of those women whose boast 


AN ACCIDENT. 


13 


it was, that, having spoken her mind, she never 
changed it. Andrew knew it was useless to argue 
the matter. He did attempt a little boasting, but it 
was very promptly nipped in the bud. 

“ You make me out such a baby, mother,” he pro- 
tested, his lips quivering. “ I’m not afraid of the 
gun ; I’m not afraid of anything. Didn’t I ride to 
town alone at midnight to bring the doctor to uncle 
Jack, the time he was so bad off ? And I swam Stone 
River on the bay mare and brought Mrs. Davis and 
her baby to the bank that time they took the wrong 
ford. And I — ” 

“ Yes, yes ; you’re the peartest fifteen-year-old ever 
was seen, I’ll be bound. You might a-broke your 
neck on that wild filly ; it’s a mercy you didn’t. 
But if old Jack’s the occasion of the hurry, I’ll be 
bound you’re ready to canter. As for swimmin’ Stone 
River, it was a mighty darin’ thing to do, and if I’d 
a-been asked, you wouldn’t a-done it, that’s all.” 

Andrew turned away with a sigh. When his 
mother spoke in that tone there was no appealing 
from her decision. And she had decided that he was 
not to go ’possum-hunting with uncle Jack. 

There was nothing to do but run down to the 
cabin, — that stood, with several others, in a grove of 
wild locusts at the top of the hill beyond the spring 
branch, and some few hundred yards to the left of the 
“ big gate ” that opened upon the glistening white 
turnpike, — and see the old man unchain the dogs and 
trudge off to the sweet, autumn-crowned woods alone. 


14 


A BOY'S BATTLE . 


“ And it is such a good day,” said Andrew, as he 
went down the path. “ The woods will be full of 
’possum, and wild grapes, and persimmons. Afraid 
of a gun ! I’d as soon be a girl and he done with it, 
if I must never leave off wearing dresses, anyhow.” 

It was a disappointment. He listened a moment 
for the deep, mellow baying of the hounds, Ring and 
Ready and Bess and Lil, that would be almost frantic 
to be off whenever uncle Jack should step to the 
cabin door with his gun upon his shoulder. 

And they would not return, Andrew knew, until 
dark, and, judging by the past, there would be a 
fat, stumpy-tail ’possum dangling from the hunter’s 
shoulder, while his hat would be filled with mealy, 
ripe persimmons, and every pocket bulging with wild 
grapes. Perhaps there would be a coon to keep the 
’possum company. It was too bad. For one moment 
he was half tempted to run away and go, anyhow. 
But the next — 

“ Shucks ! ” he said, “ unc’ Jack wouldn’t begin to 
let me.” 

As he drew nearer the cabin he noticed that the 
dogs were silent ; the cabin door stood wide upon its 
hinges, and the odour of burning bacon met him upon 
the threshold. 

The room was deserted ; a wooden tray of corn- 
meal dough upon the hearth, near the smoking hoe, 
told him that aunt Jenny, old Jack’s wife, had been 
called out just at the moment when about to slap her 
hoe-cake upon the hoe. 


AN ACCIDENT. 


15 


Some broad, long strips of bacon were burning to 
a crisp upon the live coals that had been raked upon 
the hearth. Upon another heap a coffee-pot was 
“ boiling over,” the muddy, blackish foam sputtering 
and spitting among the hot embers. A lean, black 
foxhound, which Andrew recognised as Lil, possibly 
because of the one white spot over her left eye, was 
nosing as close to the burning bacon as she dared 
approach. A yellow cat had her nose in the bread- 
tray upon one side, and a speckled pullet was picking 
at the unusual feast upon the other. 

Andrew stopped but a moment to exclaim against 
the rogues, “You, Lil, come out of there. Scat! 
Shoo ! you petty thieves you ! ” 

The next moment, above the soft pitapat of the 
dog’s feet, and the clicking, harsh sound of the pul- 
let’s claws upon the bare floor, as the invaders scam- 
pered out by way of a back door, Andrew heard the 
voice of aunt Jenny in angry protest, and, glancing 
in the direction whence it came, he saw the old negro 
and his wife coming slowly across the vacant field in 
the rear of the cabin. 

“ You ain’ got a mite o’ sense,” said aunt Jenny. 
You’s de bigges’ gump dat walks de earth, I reckin ; 
go traipsin’ off after a man what’s too drunk ter know 
what he’s sayin’, anyhow.” 

“ Ef,” said uncle J ack, and the grin upon his face 
contradicted the severity of his tone, “ ef he hab 
de reasonment ter talk, he sholy hab got de reason- 
ment ter hold his tongue. Cat nigger ain’ horned 


16 


A BOY 1 8 BATTLE. 


yit , Miss Jinny, what kin call ole Jack a thief. Ez 
fur dis here Yeller Pete, I’ll let de daylight enter dat 
yeller gent’man sum o’ dese days, you har me” 

“ Shet yo’ mouf!” exclaimed aunt Jenny, sharply. 
“ All de hands at de gin-house done hear you say dat 
alraidy. You better shet yo’ mouf, en keep it shet till 
you fin’ out it ain’ no pra’r-book, ef it do op’n en shet.” 

“ Let up, Miss Jinny, let up,” said uncle Jack, who 
had caught sight of Andrew coming out to meet him. 
“ You’s done said more’n ’nough ter let de ole man 
know he ain’ got no sense. En dat chile sholy come 
ter go after dat fat ’possum we been layin’ off ter 
h’ist out o’ dat persimmon-tree, whar he done tuk 
inter his head ter roost. Go long dar, Miss Jinny, 
en gib yo’ ole man his bite o’ corn bread en fat meat, 
en don’t be keepin’ de little marster waitin’.” 

“ Good mind ter let you go widout a bite,” said aunt 
Jenny, as she trudged off to the cabin and her inter- 
rupted duties. “ Makin’ me leab things ter burn up 
en go racin’ after you, beca’se you ain’ got no mo’ 
sense en ter go qua’llin’ back at a man wliat’s drunk. 
Has ter chase him off wid you’ gun.” 

“ Heish, chile, heish,” said uncle Jack, laughing ; 
“ dis gun ain’ had no load in hit since las’ summer, 
not since I shot dat fine rabbit what turn out ter be 
ole Mis’ tom-cat. Eh, eh ! ” 

His good-humour only exasperated his wife the 
more. 

“ En dat’s all de sense you got, anyhow,” she de- 
clared. “ Not ter know a rabbit from a gray cat. 


AN ACCIDENT. 


17 


You ain’ fitten ter be let go off by yo’se’f, you sholy 
ain’t.” 

Uncle Jack was a good-natured old fellow, if a 
trifle reckless when angered. He bore the reproaches 
of his wife, whom he always addressed as “ Miss 
Jinny,” with wonderful patience always. They had 
lived together in slavery and in freedom too long for 
him not to know that under all the sharp, shrill scold- 
ing there was a genuine affection, and a heart that 
held his happiness and safety first always. 

This afternoon he bore aunt Jenny’s temper with 
unusual meekness, perhaps because he already recog- 
nised the folly of which he had been guilty. True, 
the old gun was not loaded ; but it had frightened 
poor, half-drunken Pete quite as effectually as though 
it had been full charged. 

Uncle Jack’s last view of him had been to see 
him flying past his own house with a wild yell that 
brought his wife, Big Lize, to the door to see what 
was the matter. But he had been too frightened to 
stop. All Big Lize saw was Pete making for the 
cedar woods, and uncle Jack being escorted home 
again by aunt Jenny. 

Pete, known about the plantation as Yellow Pete, 
was a small, willowy mulatto, of a crafty and resent- 
ful disposition, though brave enough when sober. 
Aunt Jenny’s assertion that “ Yeller Pete gwine ter 
git eben wid you ef it takes de balance ob de year,” 
was a pretty fair description of the mulatto’s disposi- 
tion. 


18 


A BOV'S BATTLE. 


“ What did he do, uncle Jack?” said Andrew, as 
he followed the negro to the cabin, where aunt Jenny 
had resumed her task of preparing the hasty noonday 
“ snack.” 

“ Do ? ” said uncle Jack. 

“ Yes ; what did Yellow Pete do to you ? ” 

“ Do to me f ” 

“ Yes, to you. What did he do that made you so 
mad ? ” 

“ Mad ? I ain’ mad, honey ; hit wuz dest a min- 
ute I wuz beside myse’f ; it wuz all ober in a minute. 
I ain’ gwine gib dat nigger a secondary thought ; 1 
ain’, sholy, sholy.” 

“ But what did he do ? ” said Andrew, his curiosity 
at full heat. 

“ Do ? ” 

“ Yes ; what did he do to you ? ” 

“ Ter who, me f ” 

“ Yes ; did he hit you ? ” 

“Did who hit who?” demanded old Jack, with a 
show of temper. “ Did he hit me ? Naw, honey, dat he 
didn’t; dat he didn’t. Dey wouldn’t be hide nor taller 
left o’ dat yeller gent’man if he’d a-laid de weight 
ob his finger on dis nigger. He jest p’intedly gib de 
ole man a little bit a bit too much ob his tongue. 
I don’t want ter hurt somebody, but I reckin I’ll 
hab ter do some killin’, anyhow, ef dat Pete don’t 
keep out ob my way. 1 ’spect I’d a-killed him dis 
time ef dar wuz any load in de gun. When a man 
am tolerable mad, son, he oughtn’t fur ter keep 


AN ACCIDENT . 


19 


his guns ’roun’ too handy. Dey might go off too 
quick.” 

He was only indulging in a little boasting. In 
his customary good-humour he would no more have 
injured Pete than he would have harmed the boy at 
his side, — the boy who was almost as fond of him 
as he was of his own father. And the boast was 
meant only for the boy’s ears ; neither of them noticed 
the large, tall negro man crossing the lot but a short 
distance from the point where they stood, and in 
easy ear-shot of their voices. This negro was “ Blind 
Sam,” a field-hand from a neighbouring plantation ; a 
bad fellow, who had stirred up many quarrels among 
the hands, and had lost his own right eye in a broil 
of his own brewing. 

As Blind Sam went across the lot, he looked back 
at Jack with his one bright eye, and slowly shook his 
head. 

“ Make mighty free wid dat ar tongue o’ his,” said 
he, and passed on, leaving uncle Jack to finish his 
story. 

Andrew turned his head just in time to see Sam’s 
disfigured face disappear down the path that led 
through the orchard beyond the cabins. 

“Pete had been drinkin’ some,” said uncle Jack. 
“I ought ter a-come ’long in de house, lack Miss 
Jinny tol’ me, en let him talk, ef he’d a mind ter, ter 
de fence-post. Hit’s mighty easy ter see what you 
ought ter do after de do am done ; remember dat, son. 
You see, Pete come up here to ax ’bout his hoe, what 


20 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


he say some-un tuk ofFn de horse-apple-tree, whar he 
hung it ’mongst de limbs. He excused me ob takin’ 
hit; en den I tol’ him he ain’t showin’ de proper 
respec’ ter a ole man, ter be excusin’ ob him o’ takin’ 
a measly ole hoe. En den I invite him to make 
hisse’f mo’ sca’ce en what he am, else I’d slio’ sick 
de dogs on him. At dat he swell up till he look 
lack dat ole tucky-gobbler ole Mis’ been sabin’ fur 
Thanksgibin.’ Den we bofe passed some complimints 
ober one nudder ; en den , dest fur fun, I tuk down de 
ole gun en ax dat yeller gent’ man ter lemme see 
de colour ob his heels. Ef you could a-seed him cut 
en run ! I wuz dat tickled I didn’t know what ter do. 
So I jest put out after him, jest ter see him clip it. 
Dey ain’ been no load in de gun since las’ summer, 
beca’se I been to po’ly ter shoot all las’ winter ; so 
Miss Jinny tuk out de las’ load, beca’se she say dat 
anybody what dunno cat fum rabbit ain’ fitten ter 
tote no gun. She say dey might shoot a man some- 
time, en ’low it wuz a b’ar. Dat’s what Miss Jinny 
say. En she wuz mightily skeered when she see me 
chasin’ ob Pete. Dat’s huccome she drap her work 
en lit out after me. Women folks is mighty skeery 
’bout dey ole mans sometimes, ef dey be toler’ble peart 
en fine lookin’. Sholy, sholy ! ” 

He laughed in a low, chuckling way, and, after 
listening with regret to Andrew’s account of his 
mother’s refusal to allow him to go with him to the 
woods, went in to the dinner which aunt Jenny an- 
nounced from the doorway to be “ raidy en waitin’.” 


AN ACCIDENT . 


21 


“ But I tell you, honey,” he said, at parting, in his 
simple, hopeful way trying to comfort his friend, 
“ I ’spect yo’ ma gwine be sorry after while, en remit 
you ter go bimeby. Ef she do, you jest clip across de 
low groun’ fiel’ whar de sheep paschers, en den hoof 
it ’long down froo de orchard, en froo de cottin patch, 
on de side todes de ribber, tell you comes ter cedar 
woods. Den you got ter climb de fence en cross de 
road, en in de cedars on de fur side de pike, todes 
town, dar you’ll find de ole man. You got ter cross 
de ribber, but de water mighty low at de ford ; you 
kin step it on de rocks. I’ll keep one eye skunt fur 
you ; en you’ll know when you git dar by de scent o’ 
de cedar, beca’se it sholy don’t smell nowhars lack it 
smell down dar in de Stone Ribber woods. En dey’ll 
be a ’possum dar, I ’spect, beca’se I gwine fetch my 
rabbit-foot long ter cunjure de varmints wid. Eh, 
eh ! You jest come long ; I’ll be dar, en dez ain’ 
nothin’ ’tall ter hurt you.” 

“ Hurt me ? ” sneered Andrew, ready to fire at the 
suggestion. “ Hurt me ? Pshaw ! ” 

“ Dar now,” laughed old Jack, “ listen at dat ; dest 
listen at dat, gent’mens. I knowed you ain’ gwine 
take dat. But I knows you ain’ no coward, son. 1 
ain’ furgit de night you rid dat skeetish filly ter town 
ter fetch de doctor fur ole Jack. Psher ! I say it. 
I know you ain’ no coward. 1 alius say dat little boy 
make a man some day ; den look out ! I say dat de 
day you wuz fust bornded. I say I ’spect he be 
President, en maybe git hisse’f made squire, lack his 


22 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


grandpa wuz, befo’ de war. Maybe he move ter town 
en git ter be de police hitse’f, he dat peart. Now, 
dat’s what I say. I know you ain’ no coward, son.” 

The commendation was sweetest music to the boy, 
whose idea of greatest manhood was courage, and 
who had all a boy’s love for that which pertained to 
the heroic, and tasted of adventure. But he had not 
learned to make nice distinctions ; as yet he recog- 
nised but one kind of bravery, and that was a physi- 
cal courage. And he was brave, after his own ideas. 
But he was destined to learn that the grandest and 
most dazzling example of physical bravery which ever 
has been recorded is as nothing compared with the 
winning of a moral victory, — resisting a wrong, 
daring to do that which is right, for no other reason 
than that it is right. An ignorant old negro was to 
be his teacher. Thus are the humblest sometimes 
chosen to carry God’s great messages. 

In regard to Mrs. Pearson’s relenting, however, 
uncle Jack was mistaken. His father had lifted a 
voice for him, but it availed nothing. 

“ Ain’t you a little strict with him, mother ? ” said 
Mr. Pearson, when Andrew had disappeared down the 
path to uncle Jack’s house, and Mrs. Pearson had 
come to the kitchen door “ for a breath of fresh air.” 

“ Ain’t you a little strict with him ? He is a relia- 
ble, good fellow, and really handles a gun with some 
skill. Moreover, he is no longer a baby, but a great, 
manly boy. Loosen the lines, mother ; we would be 
sorry to find ourselves burdened with a girl-boy by 


AN ACCIDENT. 


23 


and by. I wish you would let him go with uncle 
Jack ; the old fellow has planned for this ’possum- 
hunt all the week.” 

44 That’s it, John, go and undo all I’ve done,” said 
Mrs. Pearson, sharply. 44 When I say 4 no,’ do you 
turn around and say 4 yes,’ and a pretty state o’ things 
will be to pay by and by. Go on, just go on ; tell 
him his mother is an old baby, and don’t know what’s 
what. That his pa's the one to go to. Go on after 
him, Mr. Pearson, and tell him to go long o’ the 
niggers and get his head shot off.” 

Mr. Pearson smiled. He knew that his wife really 
meant him to understand that he had her consent to 
the hunt, but, being a woman who 44 never changed 
her mind,” she was not going to change it in the 
usual way. But Mr. Pearson had no disposition to 
accept a truce so grudgingly yielded. 

44 Oh, no, mother,” said he, 44 let the boy abide by 
your wishes. It will not hurt him, I dare say. But, 
if you have no objection, I should like to send him 
into town this afternoon to carry that grass-blade 
back to his uncle’s hardware store, and to bring out 
my rifle. I left it with the smith to have a spring 
repaired last week. 

The face of the mother clouded. 

44 It’s Saturday, John,” she replied, 44 and the pike 
will be lined with field-hands returning home, and on 
Saturdays they are always drinking.” 

44 Why, Mary,” said the farmer , 44 the boy will not be 
worth the raising if we are to teach him to be afraid 


24 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


of his own shadow. A boy must take his chances to 
a certain extent, and as for me, I’m opposed to mine 
stumbling and dodging around in petticoats until he 
is twenty-one.” 

When the farmer spoke in that tone Mrs. Pearson 
had no more to say. 

“ Ride the bay mare, son, and start home an hour 
by now at the latest,” said Mr. Pearson, as Andrew 
went off to get ready for his ride. 

A few hours later he was riding homeward, along 
the white, sunshiny pike, with the rifle lying across 
the saddle before him, and his thoughts far away 
in the woods with uncle Jack, upon the hunt he had 
been forbidden to enjoy. 

The mare was entering a little stretch of woodland, 
through which the turnpike ran for more than a 
mile. It was almost sunset ; the long, gaunt shadows 
stretched farther and farther across the white pike 
— the shadow of the cedars that rose tall and rugged 
and ragged on either side the road. In those very 
woods, somewhere, uncle Jack was trailing a ’possum, 
perhaps. 

Andrew rode more slowly ; the bay was rather old, 
easily winded, and a bit stiff in the joints. She 
offered no resistance when Andrew threw her, with a 
sudden jerk upon the lines, almost upon her haunches. 

He had heard a slight rustling movement, stealthy 
and uncertain, among the dense foliage of a grape- 
vine that had twisted itself into the branches of a 
stalwart cedar near the roadside. Without a thought 





AN ACCIDENT. 


27 


of fear he pulled the mare aside and rode into the 
dense, sweet-smelling, shadowy woods. 

He drew up again, near the tree in which he had 
heard the noise, waited a moment, listened ; there it 
was again. Something was in the grape-vine, — a 
coon, of course, stealing the wild grapes at the risk 
of his own furry hide. 

With a little, low, noiseless laugh, thinking how he 
would surprise uncle Jack with a coonskin, after all, 
Andrew raised the rifle, took aim, and fired. 

There was a startled, broken cry, such as no ani- 
mal that ever roamed the woods could utter, and the 
next moment a heavy, dark object crashed through 
the vines and fell to the ground, taking, as it fell, 
the form of a man. 

Frightened, stricken with horror, Andrew sat spell- 
bound for a single moment. The next he turned, put 
whip to the mare, and went galloping down the white 
turnpike, pale as death, quivering in every nerve, and 
always with that terrible object before his eyes, the 
sound of cracking branches and stifled shrieks in his 
ears. 

“ Who ? Who ? Who ? ” This was the only word 
his white lips could form. He had shot some one 
among the grape-vines. Who was it ? 


CHAPTER II. 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 

B Y the time the bay mare reached the big gate of 
his father’s plantation, Andrew had to some ex- 
tent recovered his senses. He had shot some one ; 
he was sure of that. He believed that he had killed 
a man. Aside from the bare thought, the horror, of 
having slain a human being, he was doubly harassed 
with the knowledge of having run away without first 
ascertaining if the man were really dead. 

“ I might, at the least, have been able to get him 
a drink of water,” was his thought. “ Wounded men 
always want water. I could have brought him some ; 
there’s the river not far away.” 

Once there had come to him an idea of turning 
back. He had not meant to hurt anybody, and he 
was tempted to go back and- run the risk of the 
punishment he fully believed would be meted out 
to him should it be discovered that he had done the 
shooting. Perhaps he could get back without being 
seen ; he could find out if the man was dead. If 
not, he would need assistance ; if he was dead — 
He shuddered, and gave the mare a cut with 
28 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


29 


the whip. Go back? Not for the world. He was 
afraid. 

The mare neither stopped nor slackened her speed 
until she stood at the farm gate. He leaned from 
his seat to lift the long wooden latch, when suddenly 
a thought flashed through his brain that brought him 
again upright in his saddle. 

“ 0 God ! ” he whispered. “ What if it was uncle 
Jack ? ” 

Without another word, he wheeled the bay and 
sent her galloping back over the road they had hut 
just travelled. 

The sun had set. There were heavier shadows 
among the purple-berried cedars than when he had 
last passed beneath their jagged boughs, but here 
and there in the open spaces, where the woods had 
been partly cleared away, long, gray dashes of day- 
light still lay upon the white turnpike. 

It was intensely still, save for the loud, resounding 
hoof-beats, that had never seemed so to ring and 
reverberate. The quick, metallic sound of the mare’s 
shoes, striking the hard, well-beaten limestone, beat 
into his ears like iron hammers striking an anvil. 
Once a screech-owl darted from a tree upon his right 
with a shrill note of alarm ; but so engrossed was he 
with his own forebodings that he forgot the charm 
given him, since he could remember, at the negro 
quarters, for warding off the bad luck that always 
hides in the screech-owl’s cry, — “ Turn yo’ pockets 
en yo’ wristbands innards out, else dey’ll be a death 


80 


A BOY’S BATTLE. 


in the family, sho’.” But Andrew had room in his 
brain for but one thought : 

“What if I have killed poor uncle Jack ? What 
if I have killed uncle Jack ? ” 

He was only a boy, and totally ignorant of the 
law. He might be hung, for all he knew. It was 
an accident, to be sure. But how was he to prove 
that, since there had been no witnesses to the deed ? 
No witness ? Then why need he tell, since nobody 
knew ? Nobody need ever know unless he chose to 
tell it ; nobody could ever know, — or, if they could 
or did, they would not understand that it was an 
accident, — that he did not mean to shoot him. “ No- 
body,” said he, “but just uncle Jack himself; he’ll 
understand, but the law never would.” 

So confident was he that the victim was uncle 
Jack that he had begun to think of him as dead, 
and therefore understanding how it was that he had 
killed him. 

The next moment, just ahead of him he saw a 
figure emerge from the shadow along the roadside 
into the open clearing. In the uncertain light he 
was unable at first to make out who it was; but 
there was something 4 familiar in the short, heavy 
figure that limped a little and carried a gun slung 
across his shoulder. In his left hand he held a 
rabbit by one hind leg, and the brushy tail of a gray 
squirrel was waving from his coat-pocket. A mo- 
ment’s careful inspection, and then Andrew gave a 
sudden shout: 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


31 


“ Uncle Jack ? Oh, uncle Jack ? Is it you ? 
Oh, I’m so glad — so glad and thankful! You are 
not hurt? You are not — dead?” 

He pulled the mare up, and sat, half laughing, 
half sobbing, while the familiar figure limped heavily 
across the road and stood at his side. 

“ Des lis’n at dat, now, will somebody ? What ails of 
you, son, ter be ’lowin’ I’m a daid man ? l’s mighty 
poly, ter be sho’, en I ain’ so young en spry ez I 
useter wuz, but sholy, de little marster ain’ gwine be 
mistookin’ ob me fur a daid co’pse.” 

Notwithstanding the light words, however, Andrew 
detected the serious tone in the old man’s voice. 
And how weary he looked, and troubled. Something 
was surely wrong. 

“ Oh, uncle Jack,” said he, “ are you hurt ? ” 

“ Who, me ? ” was the reply. 

“ Yes, you. Don’t trifle with me ; I’m not in a 
humour for it. I was terribly frightened. Did you 
— did I — did anybody shoot at you ? ” 

“ Et me?” 

“ Answer me,” said Andrew, almost angrily. “ Did 
anybody shoot anybody ? Is anybody hurt, or dead, 
or wounded ? ” 

The negro slowly slipped the gun through his hand 
until the stock rested upon the ground, his hand closed 
upon the muzzle ; in the other he still held the three- 
footed rabbit. The fresh, undried blood upon the 
hind stump told that the left foot had been lately 
severed from the trunk. 


32 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


“ Little marster,” said the negro, “ dey’s some un 
hurt in de woods ober yonder. Dey wuz layin’ in 
de cedar brake down dar on de side todes de ribber. 
Dey’s hurt toler’ble bad, I reckin ; but dey ain’ daid 
yit. I heeard a gun, en bein’ ez I wuzn’t so mighty 
fur off, I tromped ober dar ter try en make out ef 
some pusson wuz hurt, or daid, or des wounded, lack 
you say. En dar in de brake, under a grape-vine 
tree, I found a coloured man wid a bullet in his liaid. 
He ain’ know nuffin et fus’, tell I fotched some water 
in my hat frum de ribber en flung it in his face. Den 
I stayed long o’ him tell some o’ de han’s frum a place 
up de pike come ’long in a wagin en tuck him in. 
Dey’s got him now, en dey’s coinin’ slow, so’s not ter 
jistle of him none.” 

u Will he die? Will he, uncle Jack?” said 
Andrew, in a hoarse, low whisper. 

“ De signs don’t say dat he will, son ; en no mo’ 
duz dey say dat he won’t. But lemme distinue de 
story widout incorruption, ef you please, sail. He’d 
ought not ter been shot. He ain’ a bad nigger when 
lie’s sober, en he’d ought ter be let live. But I reckin 
de one dat shoot him done think he wuz doin’ unc’ 
Jack a mighty big favour; but ’tain’ so, son, ’tain’ — ” 
“ But that wasn’t the reason — ” 

“Don’t incorrupt me, son,” said Jack. “ Ez 1 
wuz sayin’, de one what shoot dat Yeller Pete slioly 
wuz aimin’ ter favour me.” 

“ Pete ! ” cried Andrew. “ AVas it Yellow Pete ? ” 
“ Hit slioly wuz, son. E11 ole Jack’s mighty sorry 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


33 


fur hit. Dat ain’ de right way ter do. Dis ole nigger 
talk mighty big’ bout Pete ter-day, but hit wuz all 
talk ; des done ter pleasure his oily ole mouf a bit. 
He didn’t want Pete hurt sho ’nough. Dat ain’ right ; 
dat ain’ de way de Book say do. Now you look here, 
son. I fotched you dis ; I kilt in de woods, in de ole 
grabeyard whar I heeard tell dey useter bury de 
Injuns, way back. En I cut de behin’ foot off fur 
you, because I feared you might git inter trouble 
sometime, en I heear tell de lef’ bellin’ foot ob de 
rabbit gwine git you out de trouble, ef de rabbit kilt 
in de grabeyard ob a Sadday ebenin’. So dar it am.” 

He shifted the gun to the hollow of his elbow, and 
with his free hand drew from his pocket the still 
warm, limp foot of the rabbit he had shot in the old 
Indian burying-ground down in a bend of Stone River. 
Into the troubled old face sprang a gleam of hope, as 
the charm was offered, in the name of friendship. 
Andrew regarded it silently, without touching it. 

“ Take it, son, hit’s a charm. I done heeard dat 
eber since I wuz a little boy.” 

“ I don’t want it,” said Andrew. “ If trouble is 
going to come to me, no foot of a dead hare is going 
to keep it off. You ought to know better than that.” 

“ Take it, son,” said the negro. “ Mebbe ’twon’t 
do no good, but it can’t do no harm. Trouble am 
gwine ter come — hit’s in dewin’. Take dis here 
foot, ef you keers anything ’tall ’bout ole Jack what 
helt you in his arms de day you war bornded, en 
what helt yo’ pappy befo’ you, en what laid yo’ own 


34 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


gran’pa in de coffin, ’ca’se his own folks wuz all gone 
ter de war. Take it.” 

He was stuffing the precious charm into the boy’s 
pocket while he spoke. A devout Christian, the old 
man still possessed all the superstitions of his race. 
He was excited, frightened, Andrew thought; and 
the hand holding the rabbit’s foot trembled so that 
he could scarcely find the pocket into which he was 
determined to deposit the treasure. 

“ Ole Jack knows,” he continued. “ He knows 
what de bes’. He been here long time. En ter-day 
he done furgit to fetch his cunjure bag ’long wid 
him, en des look et de trouble what am come, — 
Yeller Pete shot, en de good Lord only knows who 
am gwine ter suffer fur hit. Dar’s de rabbit-foot in 
yo’ pocket ; killed in de grabeyard. He bes’ o’ luck, 
sholy. En now, son, you jist git ’long home fas’ ez 
dat mare kin trot. Hit ain’ healfy out here dis time 
o’ day. You run ’long home.” 

Still Andrew hesitated. He wanted to know more 
of Pete and his injuries. He had an idea that uncle 
Jack was not telling all' there was to tell. But for 
once uncle Jack was in a hurry. Far down the pike 
his quick ear had caught the crunching sound of 
wheels moving slowly and heavily along the road. 

“ G’long, son,” he commanded. “ G’long en tell 
sist’ Lize dey’s fetchin’ Pete home. Tell her dat 
he’s been hurt a little. Mind you don’t tell her too 
much ; she’s mighty ficety when she’s skeered. Des 
say he’s some hurt ; en dat all you say ter sist’ Lize. 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


35 


You kin tell yo’ pa what’s in yo’ heart ter tell. 
Won't you go on, son ? I heear de wagin now.” 

He put his hand upon the bit and gave the mare 
a dexterous turn, heading her homeward. But it 
was difficult to get Andrew off. Frightened, unde- 
cided, and ignorant as to the extent of the harm 
done to Pete, he was held to the spot by a sort of 
fascination that was only part fear, after all. Uncle 
Jack literally drove him off. 

“ Did he — did Yellow Pete — ever come to his 
senses? Did he say he knew — who did it?” he 
asked over his shoulder as the mare started home- 
ward. 

“ He wakened up ter hisse’f long ’nough ter know 
me,” said uncle Jack; “en fur a man mos’ daid, he 
sholy make out ter say toler’ble peart ter de han’s in 
de wagin dat it wuz me what done shoot him.” 

“ But you didn’t — ” 

“ Sholy, sholy ; in co’se. Honey, ’less you gwine 
on dis minute, I’ll be boun’ ter gib de mare a lick. 
I’s gwine ter clomb dis fence en light out by de paf 
through de low groun’. Dem niggers back dar in de 
wagin ain’ in no Fo’th-o’-July temper, I tell you. 
Dat dey ain’. En it wouldn’t tek much ter put it 
inter dey haids ter gib somebody de chances ob 
roostin’ on a cedar limb dis night. Dat’s huccome 
I say you better go home ’fo’ dey gits here, en say 
what you hab got ter say ter yo’ pa, en ter nobody 
else.” 

A mob ! The hint was sufficient to sen,d the bay 


36 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


mare spinning homeward as though a bomb had 
exploded at her heels. Andrew had never been so 
frightened in his life. He knew what these mobs 
of ignorant, hot-blooded men meant. He understood 
something of the lax law which had made these 
people something of a law unto themselves. And 
once fully started upon their work of revenge, he 
knew that no law in the land could check them. 
They would surely hurt some one. In all probability 
it would be uncle Jack, since no living soul knew of 
his part in the tragedy. So he told himself ; so he 
thought. 

But did nobody know ? The thought suddenly 
came to him, in that mad gallop down the shadowy 
turnpike, that uncle Jack knew all about it. The 
more he thought of it the more he felt convinced 
that this was the case. His warning to tell nobody 
but his father, his idea that whoever fired the shot 
that had struck poor Pete had done so from a mis- 
taken belief that the deed would be a kindness to 
him , — all these things convinced him that uncle 
Jack, from some unseen point, had witnessed the 
whole affair. 

Moreover, he had suggested to him, at the same 
time he was carefully concealing his own knowledge 
of the trouble, a way out of it, a course to pursue 
that could not fail to be the wisest recourse left him, 
— “ Tell yo’ pa all that’s in yo’ mind.” 

To be sure ; that was what he had intended doing 
at the very first. But now, with the possibility of a 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


87 


mob at his heels, he was afraid to part with his fatal 
secret. Afraid to trust even his father. He was not 
positive that uncle Jack really knew, and so, thought 
he, “ if nobody on earth knows, nobody can possibly 
tell. And if uncle Jack knows, he will never, never 
tell, — not to save his own life.” 

“ Yet,” said a voice in his heart, “ you would 
betray him ? Leave a friend like that, one who 
would die for you, — you would leave him to suffer, 
when a word from you would relieve him of sus- 
picion ? You, who call yourself a brave boy, and 
who expect some day to be regarded as an honour- 
able man ? Fie, you are a coward ! Do you not 
know that the boy devoid of honour can develop into 
nothing but that which is base ? Go home and tell 
your father. Be a man, and always remember that 
it is a very dark road out of which a loving father 
can fail to lead an erring son.” 

Yes, he would go home and tell his father. No, 
he might be arrested and — hung ! He was terribly 
at sea. Varied impulses were tearing him. One 
moment he would have fled, would have ridden the 
bay mare right on down that road and out of reach 
of danger for ever. The next he would have turned 
to meet the men in the wagon and proclaimed him- 
self the guilty party. 

“ I’ll go straight and tell father,” he exclaimed, as 
the mare stopped at the farm gate. “Just as soon 
as I can run up to Big Liza’s house and tell her they 
are coming.” 


38 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


He rode into the lot, dismounted, and throwing 
the reins over a hitching-post, without stopping to 
remove the saddle from the mare, went down the 
path that would bring him to Pete’s cabin, just 
beyond the locust grove. 

The moon was rising when he reached the house, 
the door of which stood wide open. A tall, yellow 
woman stood mixing some meal batter in a wooden 
tray at a table near the open fireplace, where a fire 
of hickory logs was burning. She was so tall, in the 
red firelight the strong, large frame assumed mascu- 
line proportions. As she stooped to lay the batter 
upon the hoe, Andrew had a perfect view of her face. 
She was a mulattress, and had straight, black hair 
and a complexion that justified the belief that Big 
Liza had Indian blood in her veins. It was not a 
bad face, however, that bent over the smoking hoe- 
cake in the glaring, red firelight, but rather an 
emotional one, and belonged to a nature easily and 
strongly moved by excitement. Andrew hesitated. 
The corn-cake had begun to steam. The woman 
reached a pan and began to take from it the thin 
strips of streaked bacon. It seemed a pity to spoil 
her poor little supper, but it must be done. Mis- 
fortune is not a chooser of propitious moments for 
letting its blows fall. 

Andrew stepped into the room and called, softly, 
half afraid of his own voice : 

“ Aunt Liza ? ” 

The woman gave a startled little scream and turned 
towards him. 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


39 


“ Lor’, chile, how you skeered me ! What ails 
you, ter come down here dis time o’ day ? Is yo’ 
ma sick, or somefin’ ? ” 

“ Aunt Liza,” said Andrew, with an idea of break- 
ing the bad news lightly, “ 1 was sent over here to 
tell you that uncle Pete is — coming home.” 

“ Land o’ Goshen ! I’m s’prised ter hear dat, now, 
sho,” she replied, in her dry, mirthless way, “ bein’ ez 
dat’s what he most allers does, if,” she added, “he 
ain’ too drunk ter git here.” 

“ I mean,” said Andrew, “ that he has been hurt 
some.” 

The iron spoon rattled to the floor. 

“ Ought ter git his haid busted,” she declared, 
though she had begun to dry her hands upon her 
apron nervously, preparatory to making ready for 
his coming. “ Ought ter git his haid busted, en see 
ef he’ll be so raidy ter go off huntin’ up a qua’l wid 
folks ez ain’ troublin’ him none. He’ll git hisse’f 
kilt, some o’ dese days, en hit’ll be good fur him.” 

“Oh, aunt Liza!” said Andrew, forgetting uncle 
Jack’s instructions, “ don’t talk that way. He may 
be killed already. He has been shot by’ — some- 
body—” 

The woman seemed suddenly to have been trans- 
formed into a different creature. She threw up her 
long arms and uttered a loud, shrill cry. 

“ Hit wuz dat ole unc’ J ack done it ! He done it ! 
Blind Sam done heeard him say he gwine kill him ! 
Stan’ out de way dar, chile ; lemme git out o’ here.” 


40 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


She pushed past him out into the moonlight, with 
her long hair loosened about her shoulders, uttering 
her shrill, wailing cries, until the inmates of the 
neighbouring cabins came running out to learn what 
was the matter. 

“ Sist’ Kelline,” she cried, “ ole unc’ Jack's done 
kilt my ole man! Pete's daid ! Ole unc’ Jack 
done it. Blind Sam heeard him threat him, en 
now he’s daid. Whar’s marster ? Lemme git ter 
mars ter.” 

She was so noisy, so sudden, and so vehement in 
her denunciations of uncle Jack, that Andrew had 
not time to fully comprehend what she was saying 
before she was gone. 

He followed her, more slowly, to the house. Her 
vehemence frightened him. He was afraid to confess 
that he was the guilty party ; yet to be silent was 
torture. To speak might mean death. 

When he stood in the door of the farmhouse, he 
saw his father standing in the centre of the large, 
well-lighted hall, his mother near, and before them, 
Liza, with uplifted hands, declaring in a loud voice 
that uncle Jack had slain her husband. He saw his 
father step forward and catch the strong, uplifted 
hands in his, and force the woman to sit down. 
He saw the dark shapes of men, women, and children 
scurrying across the yard in the direction of the 
farmhouse; and then he heard his father’s voice, 
positive, indignant, kind : 

“ J ust try to control yourself, Liza,” he said. “ I 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


43 


promise you that if your husband has been killed, the 
guilty party shall be punished. I don’t care who it 
may be.” 

The master looked around, saw the shrinking figure 
at the door, and said : 

“ Come in here, sir, and tell all you know about 
this unhappy business. Who shot Pete ? And who 
sent you here with the news of the accident ? Come 
in, sir.” 

In there, before all those eager faces ? Into all 
that light ? And with a lie in his heart ? He felt 
as though every eye there must look straight down 
through his lips’ evasion, and read in his heart all 
that his cowardly silence would conceal. No ; if he 
went in there to speak, he would speak the truth, 
if he died for it. He saw his mother’s eye, gentler 
than he had ever known, fixed upon him. He hes- 
itated a moment, then stepped into the centre of the 
group. 

“ Father,” he began, “ as I came down the pike, 
I — ” 

There was a shuffling, uncertain step upon the 
veranda ; uncertain in that whosesoever step it might 
be was lame. 

“ Go on, sir,” said the master. “ Who shot uncle 
Pete ? Who sent you to Liza ? ” 

The step came nearer, straight to the open door, 
across the threshold and into the room ; straight to 
the master, before all that sea of dark, excited faces, 
and stopped. 


44 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


“ I done hit, marster ; I sent de young marster ter 
tell you all Pete wuz hurt some. He ain’ daid, 
doubten hit be since I left him, out dar under de 
cedar-tree wid de grape-vines in it.” 

And uncle Jack shifted his three-footed, rabbit to 
his other hand as complacently, to all appearances, as 
though he had not at that moment tacitly assumed 
the blame of Pete’s death, in order to give Andrew 
an opportunity to make his confession quietly, to his 
father, before making the matter known to the ex- 
citable group about the doors and wdndows. 

When it was known that Pete was not dead, the 
negroes went back to their homes, and the farmer 
went out, taking uncle Jack with him. 

“ Keep out of the way awhile,” said he, “ until Liza 
calms down, and we see how it goes with Pete. It is 
a very ugly business you have gotten yourself into, let 
me tell you. Don’t go among the hands. You will 
be sure to get into a quarrel ; and don’t stop at your 
own cabin to-night. There’s the gin, or the barn — ” 

“ Marster,” said uncle Jack, “ I ain’ got no call ter 
be hidin’ out same lack I wuz a fox dodgin’ o’ the 
hounds. I sholy ain’. I reckin’ I best be gittin’ 
home ter my ole woman. Sholy, sholy.” 

And shouldering the gun that he had left outside 
when he went into the house, he trudged off to the 
cabin, where aunt Jenny, in her anxiety, had for- 
gotten to get any supper ready. 

A little later there came the noise of horses’ hoofs 
down the turnpike ; the big gate swung back, and a 


THE BATTLE BEGINS. 


45 


party of three, with pistols at their belts, dismounted, 
and passed noiselessly down the path in the direction 
of the cabin. They had left their horses at the hitch- 
ing-post, so that none at the farmhouse knew of their 
coming until aunt Jenny burst into the room where 
the family had sat down to supper. 

“ Marster,” she cried, “ fur de lub ob de good Lord, 
come ! De sheriff am come ter fetch Jack ter jail ! ” 


Chapter iii. 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 

HE scene that met the farmer at uncle Jack’s 



A cabin, when he hastened thither at aunt Jenny’s 
entreaty, would have been a weird one indeed to one 
unaccustomed to Southern scenes. 

The cabins, set here and there among the locust- 
trees, were all ablaze with light, and every door stood 
wide open. The occupants had caught the news of 
the sheriff’s arrival, and some were carrying the word 
to Pete’s house, while others were hastening to uncle 
Jack’s cabin to see what would happen next. 

When Andrew, who had gone with his father to the 
scene of trouble, saw the innocent old man standing 
between the sheriff and his deputies, his first impulse 
was to cry out and proclaim himself the one they 
were in search of. But when he saw one of the 
officers take a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and 
understood that neither his father’s interference nor 
aunt Jenny’s grief could avail to prevent the course 
of the law, he was more frightened than he had been 
at any time since the accident occurred. Tell ? Con- 
fess ? He was so far from it that he actually bit his 
lips, lest the confession slip from him in spite of 
himself. 


46 


IN the thickest of the fight. 


47 


Such a scene as the negroes were making, too ; 
some shouting, others crying, all of them full of 
excitement and interest. Only one, a tall, strong- 
looking boy, standing slightly apart from the others, 
and nearer to the prisoner, with his arms folded upon 
his breast, did not join in the wailing and lamentings, 
nor yet in the revilings, going on about him. Yet he 
was deeply interested ; his quick, bright eye turned 
first upon the sheriff, then upon the prisoner. It was 
Mose, one of the regular hands, and he was watching 
for an opportunity to serve uncle Jack. 

Uncle Jack, to all appearances, was the least con- 
cerned in affairs of any one present. He did not 
once look at Andrew, but stood quietly attentive 
while the master talked with the sheriff. 

“ I have employed him on my plantation since I 
had one,” Mr. Pearson was saying, “ and my father 
had him on his twenty years before I took him. If 
he was ever guilty of a cruel or even an unkind act, 1 
never heard of it.” 

“ Don’t doubt all you say is the truth, cap’n,” said 
the officer, “ but we’ve got a warrant for him, an’ he’ll 
have to come with us. Hey, there, come back from 
there, sir ! ” 

This was to uncle Jack, who had ventured a step 
towards the open kitchen door. 

At the sheriff’s command, he showed his ivories in 
a broad grin. 

“ Lor’, marster,” he said, “ hit ain’ no use to git 
mad. I wuz unly gwine in dar to git my cunjure-bag.” 


48 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


“ Your what ? ” 

“ My cunjure-bag, marster ; ter keep de ebul off. 
Dey ain’ nuthin’ kin hurt de ole man, ef you jes’ let 
him fetch dat cunjure-bag ’long wid him.” 

“ Well, we haven’t time for any such foolishness 
to-night,” said the sheriff. “ You will have to do 
without your cunjure-bag and rabbit’s foot this time, 
old man.” 

“Yes, sah,” said Jack. “ I’s got de rabbit’s foot, 
en hit’ll sholy he’p ; but de luck’ll be mo’ better if I 
kin fetch de cunjure-bag’ long, too, sholy, sholy.” 

But the officers had no further time to lose in use- 
less discussion ; they consulted together a moment, 
and it was finally decided that the prisoner should 
ride to town on the horse with one of the deputies. 

As they made their final preparations for starting, 
Andrew drew back behind his father. He had heard 
every word ; his face, in the moonlight, had a set, 
white look, and all the boyish sweetness had gone out 
of it. It was always a strong face, but to-night the 
strength resembled hardness rather than character. 
He drew back out of sight ; if uncle Jack should look 
at him he felt that he would almost die. How every- 
body must despise him for a coward, if they knew 
that he was allowing a helpless old man to be carried 
off alone, at night, for a crime of which he was totally 
innocent! How he despised himself! Again came 
the impulse to confess ; again he stepped forward, 
and placed his hand upon the farmer’s arm. 

“ Father ? ” 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 


49 


“ Yes, yes, son,” said Mr. Pearson ; “ I know what 
you are going to say. One of us must go with him ; 
but it had best be me. Could you wait a moment, 
officer, until I can get a horse to ride back with you ? 
I must try to get bail for him. I do not believe him 
guilty, and none of you people ” (turning to the ex- 
cited crowd of blacks) “ must believe it until it has 
been proved.” 

A sharp voice from the crowd at once demanded : 

“ Ef he ain’ guilty, huccome he ain’ say so ? ” 

The master hesitated, then replied, at a venture : 

“ Because what he may say here will appear as 
evidence in the trial. Here, Mose, Joe, run, one of 
you, and saddle a horse for me, and be quick about 
it.” 

Mose stepped eagerly forward ; his time for service 
had come. 

“ Marster,” said he, u I see de bay mare standin’ at 
de hitch-post wid de saddle an’ bridle on her, ez I 
come ’long down here.” 

“ Bring her around to the big gate, quick, my boy ; 
you may need a friend yourself some day.” 

“ Yes, sah,” said Mose. “ I spec’ dat am de gospul 
troof.” 

It was the mare Andrew had ridden, and had left 
standing at the hitching-post, while he carried the 
news of the accident to Big Liza. Nobody had 
thought, in the excitement, of carrying her to the 
stable. 

Mose led her around to the gate, and hitched her 


50 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


with the sheriff’s horses, after which he ran across 
the yard, and slipped into aunt Jenny’s cabin through 
the door on the other side, unseen by the crowd. 

The plantation hands were not unfriendly to uncle 
Jack, but they were excited &y Pete’s condition, and 
the wild grief of his wife. Moreover, the question 
put to the master was not without its effect. If Jack 
was innocent, why had he not denied his guilt ? Only 
Andrew knew. Andrew, and perhaps uncle Jack 
himself. 

The little squad was ready to start. 

“ Marster,” said Jack, at the last moment, “ mayn’t 
I git de cun jur e-bag ? ” 

“ No you mayn't ,” said the sheriff. “ Now come 
along with you.” 

“ Marster,” pleaded the old man, “ hit won’t hurt 
nothin’.” 

“Well, I shall hurt something,” said the officer, 
“ if there’s any more of this foolishness. And I 
wouldn’t be surprised much if I hurt it tolerable bad, 
too ; see ? ” 

Andrew saw then that for the first time uncle 
Jack’s courage deserted him ; he hesitated, sighed, 
gave a helpless, pleading look at the crowd of familiar 
faces, and burst into tears. 

Unable to endure the sight of his distress, Andrew 
stepped forward and seized his father’s arm. 

“ What is it, son ? Don’t bother me now. Go up 
to the house and tell your mother I have gone to 
town with the officers. And tell her to keep aunt 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 


51 


Jenny up there with her, and to do all she can for 
Pete.” 

“ Marster,” said a woman’s wailing voice, “ Pete’s 
daid .” 

Instantly the wail was caught up by the crowd of 
men, women, and children. 

“Pete’s daid! Pete’s daid! po’ Pete! po’ Pete’s 
daid ! ” 

Andrew heard the cry, and the terrible words made 
him reel and grow faint. He had an idea that aunt 
Jenny, near whose door he was standing, stuffed 
something into the hand of Mose ; he felt, rather than 
heard, the low, hoarse, sorrow-broken words which 
she poured into his ear. 

“ Put it into Jack’s own hands,” Andrew thought 
she said. “ Tell him ter keep it by him constant ; en 
ef you can’t git ter Jack, gib it ter de little marster, 
en tell him aunt Jinny say dat po’ Jack wuz allers 
mighty good ter him. He’ll understan’, sholy, sholy ; 
he allers loved unc’ Jack.” 

Andrew neither heard nor saw more. He reeled, 
tottered, and fell forward just as a pair of strong old 
arms were extended to receive him, in spite of the 
sheriff’s command to “ move on.” But when the 
squad moved off, Andrew had been carried, uncon- 
scious, to the farmhouse ; so that Mose was left to 
his own devices to deliver the charge into uncle 
Jack’s hands. Finally, by artful dodging and ma- 
noeuvring, a pretence of tightening saddle-girths and 
readjusting bridle-reins, he was able to slip the queer 


52 


A BOY’S BATTLE. 


little package into the old man’s hand, while the 
sheriff was trying to fit the key of the handcuffs into 
the lock, preparatory to securing his prisoner. 

“ Hit am de cunjure-bag ,” w T as all he could say 
before the officer was upon him ; but he saw the fur- 
rowed old face light up as old Jack’s hand closed 
upon his treasure. He was himself again, fearless, 
good-natured, hopeful, afraid of no danger so long as 
that little bagful of horsehair, squirrel teeth, and the 
parings of his own finger nails lay upon his heart. 

“ Ef I’d a-wo’ it dis mawnin’, lack I ought, I nebber 
would got inter all dis here fuss en worry men t,” was 
his thought, as he rode away to jail behind the deputy 
sheriff. 

The sudden revival of hope was not lost upon the 
farmer. Once he called out to him to know how he 
was “ getting along.” The reply was characteristic 
of the man. 

“ Who, me?” 

“ Yes, you,” said a deputy ; “ if you are the fellow 
that’s to be tried for your life, and maybe hung to a 
poplar-tree before the law can erect a gallows for 
you.” 

“ Eh, eh ! don’t you b’lieve a word o’ dat you’s 
tellin’, honey,” said Jack. “ Hat’s des’ a little tale 
you’s tellin’ des’ ter gib yo’ mouf a change. Hey 
ain’ nothin’ ’tall gwine hurt dis ole nigger ; he kin 
profensy dat much. Ain’ he got a rabbit-foot in his 
pocket what uz kotched in de grabeyard Sadday night 
by cross-eye Joe? Eh, eh! ole Molly Har’ nebber 













IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 


55 


hab de insurance ter shake her foot in de grabeyard 
agin ef dis un can’t shake off dis here little disunder- 
standin’. Ole Jack ain’ feard ; dey ain’ nuthin’ gwine 
hurt him, sholy, slioly.” 

And somehow the fearless good-humour, the out- 
spoken faith, made his captors think the same thing, 
that no harm would come to uncle Jack. The 
farmer, however, felt grave doubts and forebodings ; 
there was something premonitorily suggestive in the 
glisten of metal in the moonlight where uncle Jack 
sat behind the deputy with his crossed hands pinioned 
behind him. He felt glad that Andrew did not know 
how the officers had seen fit to handcuff their prisoner. 

But Andrew did not know ; he did not recover from 
his swoon until the men were gone. Now he was sit- 
ting alone in his mother’s room, fighting his solitary 
battle with conscience. The scene through which he 
had just passed had so unnerved him that his last 
little spark of courage had left him. 

To kill a man, that was bad enough, and hard 
enough to bear; but to sit like a coward and see 
another suffer for his deed, that was worse, and 
infinitely harder to bear. 

He fought bravely with the temptation to silence, 
the fear of confession. One moment he would be 
resolved to make a clean breast of it, but before he 
could speak, some suggestion of the evil one would 
tempt him again to keep silence. 

“ Perhaps they’ll clear uncle Jack,” said the temp- 
ter ; u they haven’t any proof. Then nobody will be 


56 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


hurt, since no confession can restore Pete to life 
again.” 

He did not consider the stain, the suspicion that 
must for ever attach to the good name of the accused ; 
he was thinking only of his own safety. 

After awhile his mother came in to get something 
for aunt Jenny, who had begged permission to go 
back to the cabin, being uneasy about the fire. 

“ The very best thing,” his mother was saying to 
Jack’s wife, “ when a body has done wrong, is to up 
and confess it, an’ ask to be forgiven. Own up like a 
man. Folks’ll respect him then, even if he has to be 
hung for it. I say own up ; it’s the best easer to con- 
science top side o’ earth, I reckon .” 

And before he thought what he was doing, Andrew 
said, “ Yes, ma’am.” 

She turned upon him so sharply that he almost fell 
off the chair. 

“ You, Andrew,” said she. “ What’s that you’re 
sayin’ ? ” 

He put his hand to his head in a dazed, stupid way, 
and stared at her. His brain was a whirl of confused 
voices which called to him in wailing accents : 

“ Pete’s daid ! Pete’s daid ! po’ Pete ! ” “ If he 

ain’t guilty, whyn’t he say so?” “They’ll hang me, 
they’ll hang me, if I don’t get my cunjure-bag.” And 
above all thundered in his ears the coarse joking of 
the sheriff : “ Til hurt something ; hurt it pretty bad, 
too.” 

“ What’s that you’re saying, Andrew ? ” 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 57 

His mother repeated her question. He replied, 
absently : 

“ I don’t know, mother. Did I say something ? ” 

His words and manner so startled her that she 
came and bent over him, her hand upon his throbbing 
temples, a strange tenderness in her eyes. 

“ Are you sick, son ? ” she asked. “ Ain’t you a 
bit feverish ? ” 

“No, mother,” he replied; “I’m not sick, but 1 
would like to help, to do something. Isn’t there 
something I can do ? It will kill me to sit still here 
and not try to do anything.” 

She seemed to see, to understand for the time, that 
her son was no longer the baby boy she had been 
blindly trying to keep him. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ you may carry a plate of victuals 
down to aunt Jenny. She wouldn’t wait long enough 
to get anything, and she hasn’t had any supper. But 
mind you, don’t go ’bout the — ” 

He stopped, lifted his head, and waited. 

“ Nothin’,” said she, “ the plate’s on the side table 
in the dinin’-room.” 

She had been about to caution him not to go near 
the well, a thing she had learned to do when he was a 
boy in his first kilts, and had never learned to leave 
off doing. To-night, however, there was that in his 
face admonished her that he no longer wore kilts. 

At ten o’clock Mr. Pearson had not returned. At 
half past ten Andrew walked down to the big gate to 
see if there were any signs of him. 


58 


A BOY’S BATTLE . 


“I ought to tell; oh, I ought to tell!” was the 
refrain that was ringing in his brain. “ I ought to 
tell, and I’m afraid. I’m a coward, a coward, a 
coward ! ” 

He almost screamed the words out to whoever 
might chance to be listening, and to the silent, watch- 
ing stars that seemed to be looking down into his 
heart, to read there his guilty secret. 

“ I ought to tell, — and I will tell, if they truly try 
to punish uncle Jack. 1 declare it.” 

He felt better for even this half confession, and 
started back to the house, when he heard the great 
hall clock striking eleven. His mother was still up, 
anxiously waiting the return of the master. In aunt 
Jenny’s house, too, a light was burning. Suddenly 
Andrew stopped and peered through the half-denuded 
rose-bushes that studded the yard. In the moonlight 
he had seen a stealthy figure creeping across the yard, 
in the direction of the cotton-gin. 

He thought at first it was some one going to sit up 
with Pete, but in a moment there was another and 
another, and still more, until he had counted thirty. 
Something was on foot, something that meant danger 
to some one. His father was absent, his mother alone 
in the house. In an instant his natural courage was 
aroused. 

“ I will get the gun and go over to the gin and see 
what this gathering means,” said he. “It might be 
tramps, and father doesn’t allow them in the gin ; it 
endangers the cotton. Tramps ? Thirty of them ? ” 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 


59 


In an instant he knew better; it was something 
more serious than tramps. 

As he entered the front hall door to get the gun, 
aunt Jenny ran in by the back door, going to his 
mother’s room. At sight of her all his nervous fear 
returned. He leaned against the facing of the door 
for support, while she called to his mother : 

“ Miss Marthy ? Oh, Miss Marthy, fur de good 
Lord’s sake try en stop ’em ! Blind Sam’s done 
come here en fotched some mo’ men from all de 
plantations round here; en dey’s gwine ter fetch Jack 
out de jail en hang him. Hit’s de mob ; de mob’s 
done come fur my ole man.” 

Her words rang in Andrew’s ears like the clang of 
an iron bell. 

“ Mother,” said he, “ I am going down there ; I can 
stop them.” 

She sprang forward and caught his arm, as he was 
about to run across the hall to the door. 

“ No,” she cried ; “ you stay here — ” 

“ I can’t ! I mustn’t ! I won't ! ” 

It was the first time in his life he had ever given 
her such a reply, or dared to contest his will against 
hers. But now he was struggling to free himself ; to 
get away, regardless of her pleadings and commands 
alike. 

“ Do you think I don’t know best ? ” she insisted. 
“ Listen at that.” 

A sound like the muffled cry of a multitude was 
borne to them through the open doors, — the cry of 


60 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


the mob. In an instant Andrew’s courage deserted 
him. Put himself in the hands of that gang ? They 
would not get beyond the spring branch with him. 

“ Mother,” — the cry ay as a shriek, — “ go to them ! 
Stop them! You must stop them! Uncle Jack 
didn’t shoot Yellow Pete ; it was — ” 

He reeled, caught at the air, and for the second 
time that night fainted. 

“ Stay here with him, aunt Jenny,” said Mrs. 
Pearson, and there was that in her manner that told 
where Andrew got his boasted courage. “ Stay here 
with him, and tell me where the men are gathering, 
quick.” 

“ In de lane by de gin-house, on de fur side, in de 
shadder. But you can’t go down dar by yo’se’f, Miss 
Marthy ; dey’ll — ” 

“ I’m not afraid of the hands,” was the quick reply, 
as she threw a shawl over her head, and went out into 
the darkness. 

As she stepped outside, under the shadow of the 
trees, the sounds of hurrying hoof-beats on the hard, 
smooth turnpike could be. heard. She ran down to 
the big gate, reaching it at the moment a solitary 
horseman rode up and leaned forward to lift the 
latch. 

“ John ? ” she called. “ Is that you, John ? ” 

“ Yes, mother,” said the farmer. 

“ Thank God ! ” was the fervent response, as she 
placed her hand upon the mare’s bit to stop her. 

“ Don’t get down, husband, but ride on down into 


IN THE THICKEST OF THE FIGHT. 


61 


the lane by the gin-liouse, where there is a mob form- 
ing, quick, — on the other side, in the shadow. Tell 
them — ” 

“ I’ll tell them they have denied him bail,” he 
called back over his shoulder. “ That will convince 
them the law isn’t to be trifled with.” 

She followed him for a little distance, hearing the 
mare’s hoofs growing fainter and fainter upon the soft, 
red soil when the master had turned her off the pike 
into the lane. 

They were not a cruel set, those ignorant, impulsive 
men, but they were easily led, easily influenced, easily 
wrought upon. To-night they were following Blind 
Sam, the worst of leaders, and one who held many a 
grudge against uncle Jack. 

A moment, and Mrs. Pearson no longer heard the 
mare’s hoofs in the lane ; but the master’s voice could 
easily be distinguished, urging the men to disband. 

“ Those from other plantations must go home at 
once,” he declared. “ And I take this occasion to 
notify Blind Sam that he must not set foot on my 
plantation again. Clear out ! ” he commanded, “ all 
of you who do not belong here. I want to speak to 
my own people.” 

He was promptly answered by a shout, whether of 
approval or defiance the listener in the red lane could 
not tell. 

“ Oh,” she murmured, “ if he would only think to 
remind them how good uncle Jack has always been 
to them ; not one of them but he and aunt Jenny 


62 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


have befriended. They know it; they are only car- 
ried away by Liza’s ravings. To-morrow they will be 
as quiet as lambs, and she the most quiet one among 
them all. Why doesn't he tell them ?” 

There was at this moment another shout; a mo- 
ment later a number of dark objects could be seen 
hastening down the lane. Had they disbanded, or 
were they only moving on to the jail ? She turned 
back in the direction of the house, quickly, in order 
not to encounter them ; but near the door she stopped 
in the shadow and watched what they would do. If 
they should turn into the pike it meant trouble ; if 
not — 

“ Oh ! ” she gave a little sobbing cry, as she saw the 
heavy, dark, moving mass suddenly sway and break 
and begin to scatter. “ Thank God,” she said, “ they 
are disbanding.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


VICTORY. 



HE weeks that followed the arrest of uncle Jack 


J- passed like a nightmare to Andrew. The post- 
poning of his confession had made the task such a 
difficult one that he had quite made up his mind that 
it was impossible ever to make the confession now. 
The honest impulse to go at once to his father with 
the story of the accident would have prevented much 
anxious regret and suffering. But the result of his 
silence had been so much more terrible than anything 
he had imagined could be that his fear had now al- 
most crushed all other feelings in his heart. 

Uncle Jack had been in jail a month, and not once 
had Andrew been to see him. True, he had sent food 
and other comforts, but he sent them by Mose or some 
one else. 

One afternoon in November, when Mose returned 
from one of these visits to the prisoner, he beckoned 
Andrew to come to him out under the leafless mul- 
berries in the farmyard. 

“ Unc’ Jack sent me ter see you, sah,” said Mose; 
“ en he say I wuz ter tell you he uz mighty well en 
hearty ; en dat he hope you drap in ter see him some 


63 


64 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


dese days. He say he wuz jist p’intedly hongry ter 
see yo’ face, en he say dey ain’ nothin’ else ’pon top 
o’ dis earth werryin’ ob him, ’cept jist hongryin’ ter 
see de young marster. He say he jist settin’ dar in 
de jail parlour eatin’ ole Mis’ good things en laffin’ his- 
se’f mos’ ter death. He say dey ain’ nothin’ trouble 
him ’tall ’cept de ’possums eatin’ all de ’simmons off’n 
de trees, en nobody ter stop hit. Hat’s all trouble him, 
widout it be dat his friends done mostly furgit him, 
en don’t come ter see him none. Hat’s all he keers 
about, aldo’ de gran’ jury done gone indict him, en de 
trial begins ter-morrer. He say he ain’ werryin’ about 
dat none ef so only his ole friends ud come set wid 
him a little, en tell him how de ’possums en de coons 
makin’ out while he am in de jail. Hat’s what he 
tol’ me ter tell you. I tell him he might know dat 
nice white boy ain’ gwine be coinin’ dar ter de jail; 
but he say, 4 Git ’long dar, nigger, you dunno what 
you talkin’ ’bout.’ Sez he, 4 Ain’ all de niggers on de 
place been here ? You reckin de young marster 
ain’t got ez much disrespec’ fur me ez de field-hands 
got ? You reckin’ he done furgit all dem traps we-all 
useter make, en de pa’tridges we ketched, en de coons 
en things ? You g’long tell de little marster what I 
say.’ So 1 jist lit out ter come tell you, sah.” 

It did not occur to Andrew that Mose might have 
been exercising his imagination somewhat in his elab- 
oration of the simple message that uncle Jack had 
trusted to him. 

Neither did it occur to Mose that Andrew read more 


VICTORY . 


65 


than a simple desire to see him in that message. What 
a coward he had been ; what a coward he still was. 
He wondered if uncle Jack had told Mose ; he was 
almost afraid of Mose now ; his conscience had made 
him suspicious of every one. Mose had no sooner de- 
livered the message than Andrew turned upon his heel 
and left him standing there under the naked mulberry- 
trees, wondering as to the result of the interview. 

The result was plain enough the next morning when 
Andrew saddled his horse and rode off to town before 
the rest of the family were fairly through with their 
breakfast. 

“ I never saw such a change come over anybody as 
has come over Andrew since this thing occurred,” 
said Mr. Pearson, when Andrew rode down the lane. 
“ It will almost kill him if anything serious comes of 
the trial.” 

“Well, you’ve got uncle Jack a good lawyer, and 
that’s about all we can do,” said his wife, “ except to 
testify as to good character. It does beat my time 
how he got mixed up in such a mess. He didn’t kill 
Pete ; I feel most certain of that.” 

“ And I,” said the farmer, “ though I doubt the 
jury will see it as we do. The evidence is damaging, 
to say the least of it. 1 don’t think Andrew fully 
realises the danger to Jack yet ; 1 am glad he has gone 
to see him. Maybe the visit will do him good ; he 
has been so terribly depressed since Pete’s death.” 

It seemed to Andrew the woods had never been so 
beautiful as they appeared that morning in November 


66 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


as he rode through them. “ Perhaps for the last time,” 
he told himself. For he was again battling with the 
desire to do that which was right, and just, and manly. 

The haze of the Indian summer still lingered upon 
forest and stream. And where the gray limestone 
bluffs fell back at the ford, he noticed how the sun- 
light stretched in a broad, golden path across Stone 
River, reaching from bank to bank and disappearing 
at last in the shadow of the old red “ forts ” that 
mark where a great battle was once fought. 

The wild grapes were gone, but huddled close 
to the roots of the trees, in the dark, moist places, 
the Indian-pipes were blooming, — those little, white 
ghost-flowers that come when the summer things 
have perished. 

Near the base of a gnarled old oak he saw where a 
coon had made a hole ; at another time he would 
probably have dismounted, and cramming a handful 
of leaves into the hole, would have set fire to them 
and smoked the coon out. But he had no heart for 
such sport now. He wondered if he should ever care 
for sport of any kind again. Not unless he confessed 
that it was he who shot Yellow Pete ; he felt sure of 
that much. And if he did confess, what then ? If 
they did not hang him, or send him to prison, — as he 
felt sure they must, — he would be called a coward 
until the day he died. He saw but little difference 
in the two punishments. A coward ! “ I’d rather die,” 
he whispered, and set his teeth in his lips, as if afraid 
the truth would slip without his knowledge. 


VICTOR Y. 


67 


Surely, he thought, never boy was called upon to 
fight so fierce a battle, and alone. He glanced at the 
red forts, and the bare, sterile old battle-field beyond 
them ; he was fighting a battle such as no soldier 
upon that once bloody old field had ever fought. Yet 
there were brave men fell there, — men who died for 
the right. The old Stone River battle-field had rec- 
ognised no cowards among her peerless dead. 

He knew the story by heart, of course ; and the 
place, tfie time, and the circumstances impressed him 
so forcibly that he dropped his head upon the saddle- 
bow and burst into tears. 

“ I can’t,” he sobbed. “ Oh, I cannot tell ; and I 
cannot be silent! If I had only told at the first; 
but now — oh, what have I done ? What shall 1 
do?” 

His eyes were still red and swollen when he rode 
into the public square and hitched his horse, accord- 
ing to custom, to the iron fence surrounding the court- 
house. There were only a few horses there yet, but 
Andrew knew that, before the hands of the big four- 
faced town-clock in the court-house cupola should 
point to twelve, there would not be hitching-room at 
that fence. For it was “ court day,” and all the 
countryside would come to town. The square would 
be crowded with wagons, and the new, unginned cot- 
ton, fresh from the Southern fields, would change 
hands so often that, if it could think at all, it must be 
sorely puzzled to know just who its proper owner was 
when at last it was hauled away to the gin. The 


68 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


negroes from the farms would be crowding the stores, 
each with his bag of scaly-barks or walnuts, which 
they wished to exchange for something in the way of 
dry goods, — a ribbon, a gay-bordered handkerchief, 
or a dress pattern of some cheap, bright material. 
They never grew too old or too poor to lose the sun- 
shine and the bright colours. 

But Andrew was accustomed to these things, and 
so gave little thought to them. He crossed to his 
uncle’s hardware store, but the clerk informed him 
that Mr. Pearson had not come down-town yet, so he 
mustered his courage to the sticking-place and walked 
down to the jail and asked to see uncle Jack. 

It was a terrible place, with all those sin-marked 
faces peering at him through the iron gratings of the 
cells, as he walked down the hall between them. 

Some of them were laughing and passing jokes. 
Andrew wondered how they could ever laugh again 
after hearing the great keys turn in the massive locks 
that held them back from freedom and friends and — - 
worse than all these — from respectability. One of 
the coarsest, most repulsive of them all thrust his 
hand through the little square in the door and called 
to him as he went by : 

“Hello, sonny, does your mamma know you’re in? 
What’s the kid gone and done to git himse’f locked 
up ?” 

“Locked up!” and he might be, — if he told. 
But he would not tell, never , never , never ! He would 
suffer anything rather than risk being put in there. 


VICTORY. 


69 


He was quite determined upon it. The next moment 
the jailer turned the key in the lock, and he was in 
uncle Jack’s cell. Then the key turned in the door 
again, and he was alone with the prisoner. 

“ Dar now,” said the familiar voice, “ I wuz jist a 
speculatin’ you’d git here dis mawnin’ ; ” and then, 
unconscious of any discrepancy between the state- 
ments, he added, “ 1 sholy am s’prised ter see you, 
now ; I sholy am.” 

They had a long talk together, for some time foreign 
to the crime with which the prisoner stood charged, — 
the woods, the traps they had set the preceding winter, 
the ripening nuts, and the squirrels that were “jist 
eetchin’ ’bout dis time ter git deyse’ves made inter 
pie.” 

Among other things, the prisoner was reminded of 
his own health, and of a dangerous illness through 
which he had once passed. When he said with sud- 
den emphasis, “ You ain’ no coward, son,” Andrew 
started and turned pale. But the next words quite 
reassured him. “ I ain’ furgit de night you rid seben 
miles in de dark, en hit a-stormin’, ter fetch a doc- 
tor fur a po’ old sick en no-count nigger. I ain’ got 
much reasonment, but I say ter myse’f, dat little boy 
ain’ no coward. Hat’s been fo’ year ago, en you’s 
growed mightily since den ; but de brave hit’s been 
a-growin’, too, I reckin, all dis time. But dey’s two 
kinds o’ brave, son ; one’s de brave of de body, en one’s 
de brave ob de spirit. Hit’s more better ter be de 
coward in de body den it am ter be de coward in de 


70 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


spirit ; heaps en heaps mo’ better. De braves’ solger 
I see endurin’ ob de war wuz afeard o’ ghostes.” 

Andrew had been so positive that uncle Jack knew 
all about the shooting that he accepted this as a re- 
proof. He understood well enough what it was the 
the old man was trying in his ignorant way to express. 
He understood the difference between the. moral and 
the physical coward. 

“ I knows you ain’ no coward ; ” the words cut him 
like a lash. But he couldn’t tell ; he could not face 
the result of a confession. Still, he could never feel 
safe while there was a human living being who knew 
his secret. 

“ Uncle Jack,” he said, after a moment’s silence, 
“ do you know who shot Yellow Pete ? ” 

“Who, me?” 

“ Yes ; do you know who it was fired the shot that 
killed him ? ” 

“Hat killed Pete?” 

Andrew nodded ; it was useless to attempt to hurry 
uncle Jack. 

“ Well, honey,” said he, “ I hab been thinkin’ ’bout 
hit some, en I low it might be dis un,' en den again it 
might be some udder one. Dis am de exclusion 1 
alius comes ter. One day I sez ter myse’f hit wuz 
Mose, maybe ; den agin I say ’twa’n’t no such a thing ; 
hit wuz des one ob de little nigger chillens projeckin’ 
’roun’ wid a gun, en not aimin’ ter hurt nobody.” 

Andrew breathed more freely ; uncle Jack did not 
know ; he was safe ; he need not tell ; but he re- 


VICTORY. 


71 


solved to do everything possible to help clear uncle 
Jack. 

“ I must go now,” said he ; “ but I’ll come again, 
often.” 

“ So do,” was the reply ; “ so do. I knowed you’d 
come ter-day, beca’se I alius say dat boy ain’ feared 
ter come ter de jail ; lie’s a brave boy, he am. He — ” 

“ Uncle Jack, have you got everything you 
want ? ” 

“ Sholy, sholy. Miss Jinny, she done sent me de 
cunjure-bag, en dis mawnin’ de preacher ob de gospil, 
he come in here en read me a piece out de Bible. En 
hit say, ‘ In de time ob trouble he shall hide me.’ 
Little marster — ” 

The care-worn face became serious ; for the first 
time Andrew felt that, in spite of gay spirits and care- 
less confidence, uncle Jack had suffered. 

“ De ole nigger kin die if he has ter die. He ain’ 
feared, beca’se de Book say, 4 In de time ob trouble he 
shall hide me.’ He’s jist gwine long en trust in de 
Lord ter hide him.” 

“ You shall not ! You shall not die ! ” cried An- 
drew, his tears flowing fast. “ This thing shall be 
stopped. My father will see to it. I am going now 
to find him at once.” 

“ Dar,” said uncle Jack, “ ain’ I alius say you 
warn’t no coward ? Sholy, sholy.” 

Andrew went down the jail steps at a bound, into 
the sunlight and fresh, crisp, free air. He walked 
briskly away in the direction of the court-house. 


72 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


Suddenly he turned, retracing his steps, passed the 
jail and walked on to a point where the town creek 
crossed the outskirts of the corporation, through a line 
of rugged old trees and gray limestone rocks. 

Andrew seated himself upon a flat, jagged rock that 
projected into the water, and gave himself up to medi- 
tation. This was the last struggle he meant to make ; 
he intended to settle the matter then and there for 
ever. He felt, so far as detection was concerned, 
that he was safe, — if it were possible to be safe. 
Only himself would ever know, unless he chose to tell. 
Yet — and his face flushed — everybody must know 
that he was a coward ; it would be stamped upon his 
countenance for ever, he fancied. If not upon his face, 
then surely upon his heart, where the eye of God must 
for ever look upon it. 

He was so terribly afraid of that which he had done ; 
it was a fearful thing to take the life of another. Yet 
the good God knew that he was innocent of any intent 
to harm poor Pete. He must know, surely. 

“ God knows ; God knows, he knows, no matter 
what may happen,” said he, softly, and the thought 
brought him unspeakable peace. Strange he had not 
thought of God before. But then he had been so 
frightened, so shocked at first, and after that the dread 
of being called a coward had driven all other thoughts 
from his mind. 

It was uncle Jack had reminded him ; his simple 
faith, his quiet resignation when he stated that his 
trust had passed from man to God, had touched him, 






VICTORY. 


75 


appealed to him more than any argument or any false 
idea of courage could ever have done. 

“ The truly brave,” said he, “ is he who dares to do 
right, when right is hard, and dangerous, and full of 
pain. And for me it is all of these, and might be de- 
basing, only that is something right can never be.” 

He sat there for two hours, fighting his battle alone. 
Once the ringing of the court-house bell broke in upon 
his thoughts ; it was the hour set for the trial. He 
stuffed his fingers into his ears and rested his face 
upon his palms, his elbows upon his knees. 

“ It might be me they are going to try, if they knew,” 
said he to the gray rocks about him. “ And perhaps 
they may try me yet, — if I tell. Perhaps they may 
hang me.” 

“ You have nothing to do with that,” said con- 
science. “ You have only to do right so far as you 
know is right. God will do the rest ; results belong 
to him.” 

“ In the time of trouble he will hide me,” uncle 
Jack’s text, recurred to him. Why could not he do 
as uncle Jack had done, — make the text his own, and 
trftst in the good Lord to hide him also ? 

He rose, and turned his face towards the town, where 
the tall old court-house, facing the four points of the 
compass, was already crowded with spectators. He 
could see the cupola, and the hands of the clock point- 
ing to eleven. 

“ I must,” he kept repeating. “ Because it is right, 
not because I am afraid it will be found out, for 1 am 


76 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


no longer afraid of that. But because it is right; just 
for that reason and no other. They may shame me 
for a coward, and blame me for keeping silent so long, 
or they may hang me for a murderer, but 1 must do 
right.” 

Once only he faltered ; he was passing at the time 
a poor little cottage, the door of which opened upon 
the pavement. It was the home of an obscure, cheap 
little dressmaker, and through the wide-open door he 
could see the young seamstress at her machine. Over 
the door behind her, embroidered upon a perforated 
cardboard, in gay wools, — red, yellow, and purple, — 
hung a little motto, “ Do right, and fear not.” 

It seemed to him as though it had been placed there 
for his own especial help. It never occurred to him 
that the little cheap sewing-woman had her battles 
and temptations, too. 

“ Do right, and fear not.” After all, nothing could 
be worse than living a lie, and allowing another to live 
in the shadow of it, possibly to die in the shadow of it. 

“ Do right, and fear not.” He repeated the words 
softly, as he walked on, rapidly now, and he varied the 
repetition with uncle Jack’s text, “ In the time of 
trouble he will hide me.” In his excitement he con- 
founded the two, and caught himself saying, “ Fear 
not in time of trouble ; do right, and he will hide me.” 
It wasn’t such a sad blunder, after all, so he continued 
saying it until he reached the court-house fence and 
began to search among the horses there for his father’s 
bay mare. 


VICTORY . 


77 


He made the entire circuit, but the bay was not 
there. He was puzzled, annoyed. It could not be 
possible that his father had failed to attend court, that 
day of all days. He must find him, though it should 
be necessary to ride back to the farm in search of him. 
His fear had left him now entirely, having fully re- 
solved to do that which was right, accepting the conse- 
quences as bravely as he might. He was surprised to 
find his courage come back to him, his burden grow 
lighter. 

He went into the court-house to look for his father 
there. At the door he met two men coming out. 
One of them carried a bundle of papers under his 
arm, and Andrew recognised him as the prosecuting 
attorney. 

“ Had a jury in an hour,” he was saying to his 
companion. “ It will require very little time to dis- 
pose of the case ; there is no defence worth mention- 
ing.” 

Andrew heard the remark, and, turning quickly, 
left the court-house. 

“ I will find my uncle,” said he, softly. “ He will 
help me, and will know what to do as well as father.” 

When he entered the store there was no one there 
but the merchant and his bookkeeper. The former 
was standing by the desk with his hand slowly moving 
down the open page of the ledger, searching for an 
entry made some time back. 

“ Uncle James,” said Andrew, “ let me speak with 
you in private a moment.” 


78 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


The merchant replied, without looking up from the 
page: 

“ In a moment, Andrew ; I am busy just now.” 

Andrew remembered that several times he had been 
as near confession as this, and had been put aside, and 
thus the impulse had passed. True, he was acting 
upon impulse then, and this was strong, sure resolution. 
Still, he determined to run no risk. He laid his hand 
upon his uncle’s arm. 

“ I must speak to you at once, now , unless you can 
find my father for me.” 

The merchant glanced at his nephew’s face, and 
instantly closed the ledger. 

“ Come in here,” said he, and led the way to his 
private office, closing the door behind them. 

In half an hour he came out, alone. His face wore 
an anxious expression, and his teeth were set tightly 
into his lower lip, as of one perplexed, lost in thought. 
He locked the door of the private room, putting the 
key into his pocket, and, taking his hat from the rack, 
hastily crossed the square to the court-house. 

Court had just adjourned for the ‘noon recess. The 
deputy sheriff was leaving the building with his pris- 
oner by one door when Mr. Pearson entered by another. 

Sitting by a table near the witness-stand, gathering 
his papers together, he found the lawyer his brother 
had engaged to defend uncle Jack. 

He stepped forward and touched him on the shoul- 
der. 

“ I want you to come with me, Mr. Lurton,” said 


VICTORY . 


79 


he ; “ I have some important testimony bearing upon 
your case.” 

A moment later they entered the store together. 
The merchant opened the door of the private office, 
and said : 

“ Go in there. I want that boy to tell his own story, 
just as he told it to me.” 

Again the door closed, and Andrew* was alone with 
the attorney. 


CHAPTER Y. 


PEACE. 


OURT had been convened, and the prosecuting 



attorney was sorting his papers, when Mr. James 
Pearson, accompanied by Andrew, walked into the 
court-room. 

Andrew was pale, but otherwise there was no visi- 
ble sign of the terrible excitement and nervous strain 
through which he had passed. He had learned but 
little from his uncle’s manner during the time they 
were closeted together. To Andrew’s trembling con- 
fession, “ It was I who shot Pete, — I was a coward 
and afraid to own it at first, but now I am not 
afraid,” Mr. Pearson had replied, in an absent, 
troubled way : 

“ Yes, yes — to be sure — certainly. It must be 
told at once — to be sure.” 

How prompt he was to act ! His promptness was 
not lost upon his nephew, whose loitering had caused 
so much needless suffering. 

The lawyer, too, had scarcely seemed to notice his 
pain and the humiliation of his confession. “He had 
smiled — actually smiled — while the boy was sobbing 
out the story of his cowardice and his regret, — smiled ! 


80 


PEACE. 


81 


His face, to be sure, was turned away, so that Andrew 
did not suspect there were tears in the eyes that had 
looked upon human misfortune from a humane as 
well as a legal standpoint. 

But the worst was over ; he no longer carried his 
burden alone. Yet he dreaded the publication of his 
cowardice ; he had no hope of being presented in any 
other light than that of a coward. As to what the 
law would do with him, what punishment inflict, Mr. 
Lurton had explained to him, after his confession, 
that the law was a protector no less than a prosecu- 
tor, and that an accident was not, in the eye of the 
law, a crime. “ If,” he had added, with serious empha- 
sis, “ it can be satisfactorily proven that it was an 
accident.” 

As he entered the court-room, Andrew felt glad 
that his father was not present. His uncle had ex- 
plained to him that his father had been detained at 
home by a sudden attack of vertigo. He did not tell 
him that he had sent his own carriage out to bring 
him in if he were able to travel. Andrew felt that it 
was far more easy to face the publication of his dis- 
grace than being forced to see a blush upon the proud, 
tender face of his father. 

As he dropped into the seat beside his uncle, near 
the witness-stand, he lifted his eyes and met those of 
uncle Jack. The broad, black face wore an unmis- 
takable grin, as, thrusting his hand deep into his coat 
pocket, he drew out a roasted sweet potato that aunt 
Jenny had brought him the day before, and began to 


82 A BOY'S BATTLE. 

munch it, with the same relish as when he used to 
drag them out from the hot ashes in the cabin on the 
Stone River plantation. His presence gave Andrew 
new strength; he was able now to look him in the 
face and smile, which he did, to the very visible 
delight of the prisoner. Andrew had scarcely taken 
his seat before the attorney for the defence arose. 

“ Your honour,” said he, and the court-room grew 
so still that Andrew fancied he could hear his own 
heart beat, “ I have a statement to make which 
trenches upon the case with such vital importance 
that I must crave the indulgence of the court in 
allowing me to make it at once.” 

The prosecuting attorney was upon his feet in an 
instant. 

“ Your honour,” said he, “ I object.” 

Nobody was alarmed, however, because of the ob- 
jection ; they seemed to somehow understand that it 
is the business of the prosecuting attorney to “object,” 
— to always “object” to everything the defence may 
offer. 

“ The statement,” said Mr. Lurton, “ is equally im- 
portant to the other side. In fact, your honour, the 
information I have to impart will leave both the prose- 
cutor and myself without a case.” 

Andrew scarcely heard the laugh which this pro- 
voked; he was listening, — impatient, eager, for the 
lawyer to continue his remarks. When the judge 
had rapped for silence, and order was again restored, 
Mr. Lurton drew himself proudly up and began. His 


PEACE. 


83 


very voice seemed to undergo a change, so gentle, 
deep, and full of pathetic sincerity was every tone. 

“ Your honour,” said he, “ there was once a brave 
and noble boy, who, in a moment of unguarded, boy- 
ish fun, without malice, or evil intent, committed an 
act which, under other and less pitiful circumstances, 
would have been adjudged a crime, and punishable 
with death.” 

The court was as still as the dead ; every eye was 
fixed upon the speaker, except, perhaps, that of uncle 
Jack, who was intently regarding the gap he had 
made in the roasted potato. 

“ This boy,” continued the attorney, “ riding along 
the turnpike in the dusk of the evening, saw an object 
in a grape-tree which he supposed to be a coon feed- 
ing upon wild grapes. With all a boy’s love of sport 
he lifted his rifle, took aim, and fired. There was a 
crash of breaking boughs, a cry which cut to the 
heart of the horrified lad, and a man, bruised and 
bleeding, wounded unto death, dropped heavily to the 
ground. The boy gazed for a single instant; then, 
horror-stricken, turned and fled. Afterward, think- 
ing the man might be alive and needing help, he 
turned back to his assistance. Hearing that he was 
beyond help, and ignorant of the law, the boy turned 
coward for a moment and resolved to keep his secret, 
lest the law take hold upon him and hold him guilty 
of murder. But, your honour, another, an old man, a 
negro, — there he sits, — was charged with the crime, 
and dragged away to jail before the very eyes of the 


84 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


guilty, suffering boy. Yet he held his peace ; he was 
afraid. He saw the arrest, witnessed the gathering of 
a mob to take the old man from jail and lynch him, — 
yet fear chained his tongue. He knew that old man 
was to be tried for his life ; knew that in all probabil- 
ity he would be punished ; yet he held his secret 
unrevealed, — no fear could pinch it from him. Yet 
all the while was conscience, that God-given guide to 
peace, at work. This morning, your honour, this con- 
science-stricken boy fought his last battle with cow- 
ardly temptation. It was a wordless, bloodless battle, 
in which good and evil, right and wrong, truth and 
falsehood, honour and dishonour, arrayed themselves 
in battle-line ’gainst one another. He fought alone, 
single-handed, without other weapon than honest 
blood and manly courage. Your honour, I am here 
to tell you that he came off that lonely battle-field a 
conqueror. He asks me to say to this court that he 
has tried to do that which is right, and that he is 
ready to accept the consequences. I am here to ask 
you to hear that brave boy’s story, and then to send 
this faithful old black man home to his cabin and his 
hoe-cake.” 

There were few dry eyes in the court-room when 
the attorney resumed his seat. Among the spectators 
there was a movement as if they were about to break 
into applause, but the judge quickly suppressed it, and 
a moment later Andrew took the witness-stand. As 
he arose, the first face he saw was hi§ father’s. 
Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his lips 


PEACE. 


85 


twitched with the emotion he was endeavouring to 
control. But there was no anger in the face, — only 
surprise, sympathy, tenderness. Andrew turned his 
own face and began to speak, gathering courage as 
he proceeded. He repeated the whole story, how he 
had twice attempted to tell his father, the part uncle 
Jack had played in the confession, the visit to the 
town creek, the little seamstress’s motto in gay work. 
There was not one who heard it without tears ; there 
was not one who heard it who had not been a boy 
himself. 

“ I was afraid,” he said, in closing. “ It was such a 
terrible thing for a boy to do, though I did not intend 
to hurt uncle Pete. I was afraid they would hang me, 
at first, then I think I became more afraid of being 
called a coward than I was of being hung. But I did 
it ; it was an accident. I am telling the truth ; I want 
to do right. I was a coward, but I want to do right 

— if I die for it.” 

As he turned to resume his seat, the prosecuting 
attorney, who had been wrenching his nose for some 
fifteen minutes, leaned forward and offered Andrew 
his hand. But the attorney was not the only one to 
appreciate the boy’s brave struggle, and to recognise 
the courage that had dared to do the right in the face 

— as he believed — of certain disaster, just because it 
was right. The judge blew his nose more violently 
than was necessary; uncle Jack’s potato — he had 
forgotten to finish it — dropped to the floor, while 
uncle Jack gave expression to a low-spoken : 


86 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


“ Dar ! Ain’ I done tol’ you dat little boy ain’ no 
coward ? Sholy, sholy ! ” 

“ Your honour,” said the prosecuting attorney, u 1 
move that the case against the prisoner he dismissed.” 

This was done at once, after which the court took 
a recess, — “ In order to clear up the atmosphere of 
brine,” some one said. 

As uncle Jack was leaving the room he ran against 
the sheriff who had made the arrest at his cabin a 
month before. The officer smiled and extended his 
hand. 

“ Well, uncle Jack,” said he, “I see you are deter- 
mined to beat me out of a job.” 

Uncle Jack gave the sheriff his left hand ; his 
right was thrust hastily into his pocket, and a mo- 
ment later he was flourishing before the eyes of the 
astonished officer a little flat, soiled, three-cornered 
bag made of coarse, yellow domestic. 

“Ain’ I done tol’ you dat cunjure-bag keep off de 
bad luck ? ” said he. “ Dat’s huccome I say I ’bleeged 
ter fotch it ’long o’ me. Sholy, sholy ! ” 

But that night, in the cabin on the Stone River 
plantation, uncle Jack had a very different story to 
tell. The news of the releasing of the prisoner 
reached the farm some hours before he walked into 
the cabin where aunt Jenny was bending over the fire 
basting a roasting pig with a mixture of vinegar, salt, 
and pepper. The table was spread with a white linen 
cloth, and, evidently, festivities of an unusual order 
were on foot, for since noon dusky forms had been 


r ' 



“ IT WAS DARK WHEN HE REACHED THE CABIN DOOR 





































































PEACE. 


89 


darting to and fro, in and out the cabin door, each 
bringing an offering for the “ festerbul ” that was to 
celebrate the return of the prisoner. 

Not the least energetic among those who prepared 
the feast was Big Lize, Pete’s wife. She had killed 
her best gobbler, dressed and cooked it, and brought 
it along with the ’possum that Mose had asked her to 
bake, with some sweet potatoes, as his contribution to 
the supper. From the farmhouse the mistress had 
sent down a pound-cake and a basket of doughnuts in 
Andrew’s name, while the master sent the identical 
shoat that aunt Jenny was so industriously basting 
before the big kitchen fire, in the hope of “ gittin’ it 
raidy ’g’inst dey all comes;” for all the plantation 
hands were expected to be there to welcome the old 
man home. It was dark when he reached the cabin 
door, and stood a moment with his feet upon the 
threshold, a hand upon either door-post, looking in. 

How good it was, that blessed home feeling ! How 
good, and safe, and sweet ! After wandering, rest ; 
after turmoil, doubt, and uncertainty, peace. The 
very smell of the corn-cake browning upon the hoe 
off one end of the hearth was like a perfume — a 
sweet, familiar old perfume — to his nostrils. And 
the fat, shapeless figure bending over her barbecue 
was as perfect to his partial eye as any faultless 
Milo to the trained eye of an artist. He saw the 
table with its burden of good things, — the odour of 
’possum filled the room, seeming to demand recogni- 
tion. The ex-prisoner thrust his woolly head well 


90 


A BOY'S BATTLE. 


into the room, but without entering called out, in his 
glad old way : 

“ Eh, eh ! ’Spec’ you lookin’ fur cunfny ter supper 
dis night, Miss Jinny. Sholy, sholy ! ” 

She gave a funny little shout that was half joy, half 
surprise, dropped her basting-mop into the bowl of 
vinegar, and for very weakness sat down upon the 
hard puncheon floor and began to cry. 

The news of his arrival soon spread, and then the 
visitors began to gather, led by Yellow Pete’s widow. 
Their “Howdy you do, unc’ Jack?” could be heard 
on all sides, as they came down the little paths to the 
cabin, across the orchard, through the chinquapin 
thicket, and across the sheep pasture. They had for- 
gotten the arrest, the mob, the very crime itself ; they 
remembered only that he had suffered, and that he 
had returned to them. 

Such a night as they made of it ! Such stories as 
were told between the tunes that Mose picked out 
upon his banjo. And when they were tired of music 
and feasting, they remembered to ask about the trial. 

“Was you skeered? Tell us all ’bout hit,” they 
demanded. 

Uncle Jack straightened himself in his chair, laid 
his rough old hand across aunt Jenny’s shoulder, and 
said : 

“ I wuz feeling some bad, sholy. Hit seems lack 
dey wuz boun’ ter hang me, anyhows, dis mawnin’ 
when I went inter de cote-room. But when I look up 
en see de little marster settin’ dar lookin’ so brave- 


PEACE. 


91 


lack, all my skeer des went skeetin’ off. Soon’s I see 
him I jest tuk out dat sweet ’tater what Miss Jinny 
sont me, en begin ter eat it, kase I knowed hit wuz all 
right. En dat’s all dey is ter tell. I disremember 
all dey said, beca’se I wuz thinkin’ ’bout de time dat 
chile rid off in de dark ter fotch de doctor, en I sez, 
sez I, ‘Dat little boy ain’ no coward. He gwine tell 
all ’bout it his ownse’f, bimeby.’ Dat’s huccome I 
ain’ tol’ when I see him shoot in de grape-vine en 
kill po’ Pete. I know he gwine tell hit all his own- 
se’f bimeby. En when I see his ma crope out ter de 
gate ter meet him, when we-alls got home ter-night, 
seem lack I couldn’t hear dat she say, ‘ Howdy, unc’ 
Jack ? En welcome home ag’in.’ Seem lack I could 
unly see her op’n her arms en take dat big boy o’ hers 
inter ’em, en hoi’ him fast en never say a blessed word. 
But I spoke up, en sez I, ‘ Mistiss, dey’s some mighty 
fine folks in dis worl’, I reckin’, but dey ain’ none in 
hit mo’ braver en what dat chile am. Sholy, sholy ! ” 


THE END. 


































4 































